


Credence and Kerosene

by witchguts



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ...Somewhat?, Drabble Collection, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Kinda? There's plot, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, The romance is gonna take a while, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchguts/pseuds/witchguts
Summary: In front of Roadhog sat two letters. Both job offers, both with attached parcels, and both requesting him at the exact same place, ASAP. Both from different people.
One came with a stack of money, and the other... a satchel of golden teeth.
(A slow burn Junker origins fic, through current canon and beyond... eventually. More or less drabbles connected with plot later on.)





	1. Preliminary Payments

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written and posted in like... 10 years? zoinks scoobert.
> 
> Here's some plot establishment (this and the next few chapters) before the semi-drabbles start. There's definitely a plot, but it's not really plot-centric, if that makes sense. It'll more or less be little side-tales during the setup of current canon, all about our favorite Junkers.
> 
> Tags will be added and changed accordingly as the work grows.

Twenty years of being a Junker enforcer leaves little that you’re not prepared for, Roadhog knew this much. He had encountered his oddities, tragedies, brief flits of hope, plenty of guts and steel and fire. It didn’t seem like much, but as far as could remember, he hadn’t encountered such a coincidence before in his line of work. He adjusted his creaking seat to get more light in the dim pub, swirled his mug of piss-warm ale, and looked again. Had to make sure he was reading things right.

Before him sat two letters. Both job offers, both with attached parcels, and both requesting him at the exact same place, ASAP. Both from different people.

He took a swig and readjusted his mask, unfolding the first letter again to make sure his eyes weren’t fucking with him. It certainly wasn’t the watery homebrewed booze fucking with him, he thought. The paper looked surprisingly clean, crisp, folded neatly in thirds and removed from its dusty envelope. The dull blue words were penned nice and clear with a practiced hand. It had crinkled slightly en-route, but what would you expect when your mail service boiled down to scruffy kids with dirt bikes looking to trade service for scrap?

He hadn’t expected the local mail runner to come tracking him down to this pub. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen, asking if he was the enforcer everyone was talking about. Her tone betrayed her exhaustion and frustration; he figured she had been popping in places asking for a good while. Roadhog wasn’t exactly the type to blend in, but knowing that he was gaining talk with the locals made him uneasy. He’d have to keep moving.

“Took me two days to find yer arse,” she muttered as she dug two parcels out of her knapsack. “Not counting how long it took to even get here.” She spat a wad of dusty phlegm in the dirt, licking at the gap of a missing tooth as she pulled out two small bundles. “Almost wasn’t worth the money.” Roadhog could only give a small grunt of understanding, but he wasn’t gonna pay her for a parcel he wasn’t even expecting. She met his mumbled thanks with a “Sure, whatever.”

That was just minutes ago, after the last patron had cleared out and left him alone in the pub at some ungodly hour. The owner knew him, at least, entrusting him not to make off with her bottles of swill. Didn’t stop her from stashing the cashbox under her arm as she went to the basement to tend to her ramshackle brewery, though. He didn’t blame her. She wasn’t stupid, despite still trying to figure out this whole brewing thing. His tongue clicked against the bitter aftertaste.

Letter. Right. He smoothed the creases and read again.

_Enforcer:_

_Your services are greatly requested. I know the exact whereabouts of a wanted man. The payout for extracting information would be much higher than any bounty the local gangs are proposing for him. You will receive a hefty cut of this, should you accept my offer. This is something I cannot do alone._

_Details to follow in person. Included should be your preliminary payment. If there is no package attached, the mail runner is stealing._

_Go to Barker’s near Hall’s Creek, 20 miles out on Duncan Road._

_Time is essential._

Unsigned.

The uncharacteristic formality of it struck a gross nerve in Roadhog, but the enticement of a grand payout softened that. The sender must have known his preconditions; an enforcer with his reputation wouldn’t respond to just _any_ offer. Things usually had to be padded with some paper incentive or something with a high trade standing. It hadn’t been this way twenty years ago, not even ten, but the role of enforcer had long evolved with the world surrounding it. A decade ago, his job was mostly ousting raiders and protecting the villages struggling to sprout and rebuild from the ashes of the omnium; a war-torn hand to settle disputes and uphold whatever sense of order remained. But as the years passed, society grew back with a thick shell and poisonous spines, mutating from the radiation, learning self-sufficiency in a visceral way. Law was personalized and cutthroat now. Each Junker for themselves. Townships kept to their own, making their small numbers into makeshift militias, thieves be damned and full of lead. Traveling enforcers were few and far between now, the job both relegated to the common populace and deadly as hell. The world was strong enough to take care of its own problems now without the need of traveling protectors.

Roadhog hadn’t had the privilege of being able to settle and become a village’s personal enforcer, nor did he necessarily want to. Permanency was something you shouldn’t strive for, he learned. It always ended in disappointment. Now his main concerns were having enough money to quell his hunger and fill his bike’s tank, which meant being more of an enforcer-for-hire. For those who didn’t have the stomach for it, he would be their killing blow to whatever raiders or gang or annoying bastard they wanted gone… with stipulations, of course. Roadhog had standards; he had refused jobs on innocents, only threatened gangs of young teenage bandits instead of leaving them in pieces. But then again, he had years of blood caked on his hands with little regret. It paid not to care. Too much empathy was hell on the paycheck. Now, he settled debts and settled scores, a tool for whoever could afford him (even though that sat uneasy with him, he couldn’t afford splitting hairs between his personhood and his job). After years on the job, Roadhog had nicely earned a reputation of being the most intimidating Junker one could pay to do one’s dirty work, and he lived up to it. It came easy after living most of his life in warzone after warzone where remorse took a back seat to survival. And payment meant survival.

…Payment. He slid the letter across the carved-obscenity-laden table and picked up the assigned parcel, a bulkier envelope, and tore away a short side. As he thought, a clip of bills awaited him inside, which he fanned out and restacked to count. And count. And count? Shit, this was more than enough to get him to Hall’s Creek. It could get him there three times over with enough to spare for rations. He couldn’t hold in a single chuckle, low and puffed out of the filters in his mask. Oh, this would be an easy decision.

Now for the second letter, but he wasn’t sure why he bothered. This sender had to produce a miracle for him to consider it. This one came crumpled, scrawled on brown butcher paper folded haphazardly into uneven fourths and coated with blackened fingerprints. The words on this one were little more legible than chicken scratch and it reeked of the half-dried permanent marker used to scribble the following:

_HEY_

_HERD YOUR GOOD AT KILLING, GOT AN OFER FOR YA_

_SENT SUM $$$ TO ~~PERSW~~ ~~PURSWAID~~ ~~PURSUAIDE~~ ~~PERS~~ CONVINS YOU, LOTS MORE WERE THAT CAME FROM!!!!_

_BARKERS AT HALLS CREEK, NOCK 5 TIMES ON BASMENT DOR IN BACK_

_NEED YOU SOON_

_THANKS MATE_

Also unsigned.

Nope, he read it right the first time. Coincidence his ass. He crumpled up the letter, a condition it seemed to be well-accustomed to already, and took up the package. Might as well see what the poor bastard choked up, entertain the thought a little. The second parcel was lumpy, uneven, hastily wrapped in the same brown paper as the letter and bound with electrical tape. It tore easily in his hands, revealing a crude draw-string satchel. The fabric was too thick to betray much of its content by touch alone, but he heard the unmistakable (if muffled) jingle of metal on metal. Coins, perhaps? No, not heavy enough. His large fingers fumbled with the bag’s knot for a minute before he decided on just ripping the damn thing open, scattering the contents across the table.

Metal bits? He leaned closer. No, gold bits. His eyebrows perked behind his mask. Then, he noticed a strange reoccurring shape.

No. Not just gold. Teeth.

He did a double take to make sure the light wasn’t messing with him, nor the beer, nor his own damn mind. No, what he saw stayed the same no matter how long he stared.

This fucker was paying him in teeth.

...Gold caps, he tried reasoning. Some smaller chunks of gold looked to be fillings. His fingers sifted through them, molars and premolars and incisors and the odd canine. They were in various states of condition; some bent, some crushed but recognizable, some still caked with dental cement on the inside. He thought he saw a piece of actual tooth in one. He didn’t want to think about how someone acquired this many teeth. To his relief, though, he discovered his “perswaishun pay” had a little variety. He found a few scraps of jewelry chain, a busted bracelet, a men’s ring bent in half, several loose earrings, and a smaller ring missing a stone. All gold, from what he could tell. He’d have to get it appraised at the next trading post he went to, but he knew this was nothing to scoff at. Humanity held strong to its love of shiny things, and he knew people at least used it as a conductor.

But the preceding letter beat them out by virtue of being actual goddamn money. He couldn’t give a handful of teeth to a filling station or a store. Trade just didn’t work that way. Scrap trade had to be something immediately useful. A radio, a headlight, spark plugs. Not… this. As he scooped the gold scraps into the bag, he considered his options. He could just take the money, but then he’d have two pissed off people with his name on the top of their shit lists and probably the means to hire someone else. He didn’t want to deal with that. The first writer seemed too eager to meet him in person, it could be a trap from the many enemies he’s made. The second writer was an idiot who pays people in teeth. He huffed, running a hand over his tied-back hair. Of course the first letter held priority… but if that went to shit, then he always has a backup offer. Even if he got a bad feeling from both of them.

He guzzled the rest of his drink in a matter of seconds (it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to savor) and stood, his seat creaking in happiness to be rid of his weight. A few fresh bills from his preliminary should cover the tab, which he left behind the bar top. He could smell the boiling beer mash from the basement and mused that she’d be lucky if the money was still there by the time she resurfaced. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his neck, letting them crack into place for the long ride out. He pocketed the rest of the paper money, tucked with the attached letter, and inspected the sack of teeth again in his hands. With a sigh, he picked up the crumpled butcher paper the second letter had been scrawled on and stuck that in his pocket too. Fuck it, might as well.

The night air bit at his skin as he opened the door to leave, dry and frigid from the day warmth being long gone. He could tell it had to be about four in the morning just from how the air felt. Cold as shit, but better than scorching heat that blistered the skin. The packs on his motorcycle looked to be thankfully untouched, even though he knew better than to keep anything of value in them once his bike left his eyesight. The locals knew him for his bike and knew who would come after them if they dared to touch it. He swung his leg over the seat as he’d done a million times before, savoring the boom in his chest as he turned the ignition. If it took the mail runner two days, he could make it in a day and a half.

Hall’s Creek and two jobs. Or one job, if this was heading where he thought it was. Either way, he’d be set for at least a month or two with the supposed payout, so it’s no skin off his teeth. …That wasn’t the best saying right now, actually, he thought. A petrol run with the _actual_ money and he’d be set. He’d deal with getting the gold appraised later. With a kickback like a gunshot and a mechanical roar like a demon, he peeled away in a cloud of red dust and sweet motor fumes. Hall’s Creek. …One job.

He didn’t want to meet the type of person who pays somebody in teeth.


	2. Meeting the Tooth Fairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took a lot longer than I thought. I went out of town for a week and got a new laptop, so that had something to do with it. Totally not my horrible procrastination.  
> I added a few tags and changed things up a bit, see if you can spot the major difference (hint: it's roadrat).
> 
> Also I don't know what chapter pacing is, so have a 10k bomb. I could have split this in two, but I guess I just like suffering.
> 
> I hope it was worth the wait.

The mail runner wasn’t lying when she said it almost hadn’t been worth the money to get from Hall’s Creek to the old pub, Roadhog thought.

Eighteen hours out, two fuel stops, one food stop, and roughly three hours of sleep bade him well into the fresh night, just as he had anticipated. Though the ride out west had been nicely dotted with accommodations, more than he expected along the highways that had recently been red desert and dry brush for days on end, he noticed his sender’s money stack was thinning more than he would’ve like it to. He almost had good mind to deck the station attendant when he got his total at the last petrol stop. Maybe add to his brand new teeth collection. As the attendant casually read his total (Twenty-five bucks a liter and twenty-two liters to his tank to fill it), Hog seized up to stop his hand from automatically punching like he was getting mugged. He thought he’d have to dig into his “gold payment”. Not to cover the costs, but to replace his own damn teeth from how hard he was grinding them while he peeled bills into the attendant’s hand. It hurt, it really, _really_ did. Not as much as it would hurt the other guy to leave LEFT imprinted on that smug bastard’s face as he counted Hog’s payout, though. That better not have been a smirk he saw through the corner of his mask’s lenses.

As much as he hated to dwell on it, and as much as he knew it was inevitable, he had to admit that Junkertown was changing. It wasn’t even a singular place; Junkertown encompassed all the scrap-littered wasteland that remained in Australia’s center and all the miniscule towns that somehow still stood, or ones that had been formed from bits and pieces of destroyed settlements. A name from the big cities, and a name well-earned. It pained to catch up on the rest of the world during pirated broadcasts of news radio and know that the coastal cities were thriving, rebuilt and beautiful again… and neatly cut away from Junkertown like a gangrenous limb.

The already piteous help from the metropolis coast and other countries had dwindled down to nothing. Rations had to be smuggled in rather than given in charity.  Twenty years was plenty of time for Junkertown to get its shit together, but everyone there knew they were struggling. Junkers themselves knew they were struggling. Those who still remembered them from the decades-old media coverage and occasional recent filler news story knew they were struggling. They couldn’t easily exist so brutally cut off from the outside world without constant strife. Schools and hospitals fed by humanitarian aid came and went with dangerous frequency, always ruined by raiders or by lack of funding. Volunteers were quickly scared away to where only the stupid would give their time to a place like this. Junkertown was a precarious balance of self-sufficiency and self-sabotage. And the petrol prices…

Whatever. It’s over. He didn’t want to get into a mood before he met his mysterious sender. Senders? Sender. The last thing he needed was fantasies of gutting an otherwise innocent guy distracting him from making a deal. Besides, “intimidating” netted more jobs than plain “angry”. Had to get into the mentality. Had to make it seem like he could make all of Junkertown kneel at the mere mention of _Roadhog_. This wasn’t an interview, it was someone begging for his help where they didn’t have the spine for it. His word was the final word; _he_ was the one who had been approached, _he_ was the one with the power, bargaining and otherwise. They need to know how lucky they are that they could potentially have him as their force of destruction, for the right price.

And considering how unbearably inflated the prices were out here, it would be a big price.

The heat of the cracked asphalt along Duncan Road slowly began to evaporate with no sun to reinvigorate it. Roadhog had made the turn as the last wisps of pink and orange sky were snuffed out by the encroaching black of night. Guided by his headlight alone, he swerved around chug holes and missing chunks of road, keeping a close peripheral eye out for the bulk of any building along the way before darkness fell completely. Soon he caught the distant burn of a single light, splitting into several the closer he rode: one bright light on the porch, and the dimmer glow of windows. The flat horizon bore only shadowy scrub brush past this for miles upon miles, so this had to be the place. He eased his brakes as he pulled off the road and onto the packed dirt of the designated car park (or what counted as it, at least), killing the ignition and letting his bike get some well-deserved rest. A flaking sign in faded red confirmed his location: **BARKER’S**. He flexed his fingers, stiff from clutching the handlebars for the last several hours straight, until each joint let out the sickening crack that he loved.

The place looked no different from any of other many shack-like pubs that had sprung up across Junkertown. Worn out but not totally derelict. They weren’t supposed to look nice, they were supposed to get you sloshed. Other than the light pouring through the dirty windows, it seemed deserted. He hesitated briefly; thoughts of ambushes ran through his head, of a bullet tearing through the thin scrap wood of the door. But he heard no shuffling, no steps. If it was a trap, they would’ve popped out as soon as they heard him cut the ignition. The shifting of the holster on his back and the jingling of chains as he stepped forward brought him to reality again, telling him he could handle a couple revenge-hungry fucks wanting to test their might. The couple of stairs groaned painfully as he made his way to the door. He glanced at the windows; too filthy to see through, barely clean enough to let out a glow. He took his time before touching the door handle, just to make sure, and pushed.

Empty. Stools and chairs empty. No one behind the bar. Door to the back closed. For a moment Roadhog thought someone had sent him out here just to take the piss out of him, an elaborate fuckin’ prank, but that thought quickly snuffed itself when he heard a voice bubble through the thin floorboards.

Not talking, no. Blood red shouting.

On instinct he backed out of the still-open door, trying not to make much noise (A bit of a moot effort with a man his size on rickety floorboards). The yelling continued from below, shrill and fiery, the only word he could clearly make out being a particularly punctuated _BASTARD_. A second voice joined in after that, lower and stern but still with a fuming intensity. As the “conversation” continued (The first one screaming muffled obscenities while the second one tried actually communicating), Hog’s discomfort and skepticism of this whole ordeal flourished. This reeked of a trap. He could turn tail and hop back on his bike before the people below him could spring out from the basement. He wasn’t far enough inside for them to fire through the floor with any accuracy. Or… he could meet these assholes head-on and show them the mortality rate of trying to fuck with Junkertown’s deadliest enforcer.

He rolled his shoulders until they cracked and decided on the latter.

With absolute intention he stepped forward, letting his steel-toed boot make a grand introductory **thud** against the wood as his weight bore down. The whine of the floorboards shut up the voices beneath him immediately, returning a second later in a much more hushed tone before fizzling out. In the newfound silence, Hog reached his left hand behind him to the spool of chain hooked onto his belt, untucking a gnarled meat hook from its loop. To fit his needs, it had been repurposed… slightly. Soon he heard a door slamming farther away, followed by another door swinging open and closed. His right hand began heading toward the holster on his back, threatening to pop the latch. _That’s right_ , Hog thought, _waltz right in_. Footsteps much lighter than his moved forward, forward, until the door to the right of the bar top swung open. Hog almost raised his left hand to throw his hook, when—

A disheveled man pushed his way into the main pub space. Unarmed. Safe? He was halfway through taking in a breath to say something before his eyes finally made contact with the behemoth standing before him, and suddenly words seemed to fail him. Sunken eyes darted across Roadhog’s frame, lingering at his belly and mask particularly. Roadhog took the man’s second of half-frightened silence to look him over as well. A foot and some inches shorter than him, definitely. He wore mundane clothing: a white shirt beneath a black denim jacket with dark brown cargo pants and work boots. He looked surprisingly kept up, not a tear or fray in sight. He bore a slim build, not any bulk to him, and Roadhog wondered how he’d survived as long as his age implied. Grey consumed his thinning hair; drooping cheeks and dark circles abound on his weary face. Pale as a ghost. The type of guy that would need someone like Roadhog to do anything even slightly visceral. After a few seconds, his face sunk back to an exhausted expression as the novelty of Roadhog’s mere presence wore off.

“…Can I help you?” he asked, drained. The second voice from below. Suspiciously polite.

Without a word, Roadhog sheathed his hook against his side (Did the man even care that Hog almost butchered him…? He almost looked like he would welcome it.) and dug out the first letter from a couple days prior. He unfolded it and held it up, the man’s face unresponsive except for slightly raised eyebrows.

“So you’re the enforcer?”

Roadhog nodded with a slight affirmative grunt. “You the sender?” he asked, letting his skepticism soak his words. He saw the muscles in the man’s neck tense as he heard Hog’s gravelly voice for the first time. Like a rumbling engine, complete with the potential threat of booming intensity if pushed. Rough and full of smog.

The man’s lips stretched barely in what Hog assumed was supposed to be a dry smile, and nodded once. His expression quickly faded back to its normal “dead with a side of tired”, and he glanced behind him to the closed door.

“Who else is here?” Hog asked, with the slightest warning to his voice. If there was an ambush planned, this was the most thought-out one he’s been a victim to, but if this frail guy was involved, he’d be the first one in pieces.

“…I have a rat problem,” he said, completely deadpan.

Roadhog looked unconvinced. Or, as much as one could look unconvinced with a mask on. The man cleared his throat and continued.

“Let’s take this to the far corner,” he murmured, low. A quick bout of ushering later, Roadhog found himself seated across from his sender in the back left corner of the pub, next to the door. Away from above the cellar, he guessed. The man had his hands clasped on top of the table, sitting with an air of executive prowess. His whole stance gave off an unfamiliar aura to Hog, completely different than the frantic hush-hush and gritty motivation of booking any other jobs. It felt like he was at a business meeting. A pencil-pusher about to get chewed out by his boss. His stomach twisted at the thought of being subservient to this guy.

“Apologies for not introducing myself sooner. Joseph Barker.” He extended his hand to Hog, and Hog simply stared at it until it was limply retracted a few awkward seconds later. “You are…?”

“Roadhog.”

He paused. “Your name?”

“ _Roadhog_.”

Barker sighed quietly with a touch of exasperation, not looking to press any further. “…Look, let me get to the point. I need information, and you’re the one best qualified to get it out of people.”

“S’what you said,” Hog replied, mimicking Barker’s earlier deadpan.

He sneered at the hint of attitude in Hog’s voice. “Let me tell you more, then. Have you heard anything about a man by the name of “Junkrat” by any chance?”

The name meant little to Hog. He had only heard it in passing, like so many other names, on the lips of the usual lowlives that scoured the pubs he frequented. The last time he remembered hearing the name was a week ago, swapped between of a couple of raiders and their drunken planning. He hadn’t seen them since.

“No.” He wasn’t lying, Hog didn’t know anything about him. Barker slid back in his chair, his posture straightening in graveness, brow crinkling.

“Listen.” He paused, looking around the pub once more before continuing, more hushed and severe than ever. “He’s a very dangerous man, crafty and unpredictable. Mad demolitionist turned killer. I can name several different gangs and townships off the top of my head that _all_ have a bounty on him; he’s wanted from here to Queensland for everything from theft to murder.” He glanced around again, the paranoia only slightly muffled by his fatigued expression. “And right now, I have him in my basement.”

Roadhog hummed in consideration. Now this was getting interesting. He thought about the second letter he received, still crumpled in his other pocket. The pieces were falling into place, the muddled equation becoming clear. A race to see who could hire him first. He almost wanted to mention the other letter, but he didn’t want to ruin the job by having Barker think he’s being double-crossed. The man’s mentality seemed fragile enough as it is, the slightest hint of treachery could topple this entire negotiation. Then he’d be stuck with crawling to the tooth guy for a job. …Actually, from Barker’s description of him, the teeth seemed to make grim sense now.

“You see, he has me blackmailed. He’s threatening to destroy my business, my _livelihood_ , if I don’t keep him harbored here quietly while the local gangs give up on looking for him.” His voice betrayed a hint of sadness, quickly turning to guile. “But he doesn’t know that I know his secret.” He leaned in closer, eyes still darting around as if the man below them was going to claw his way through the floor. “I’ve heard from the locals that he found something of tremendous value in the old omnium, and he’s hiding it somewhere.”

 _And here’s where I come in_ , Roadhog thought.

“Here’s where you come in,” Barker said. Hog tried to keep from snorting. “You’re more qualified to… extract information than I am.” Snap a bone, gouge out an eye, carve into the thick of some muscle until they talk, Hog thought. It didn’t surprise him that the modest Barker didn’t want to say what he supposedly meant, much less do it himself. “I need to know where his treasure is and how to access it. Do whatever is necessary, keep him alive if I need him.”

“ _We_ ,” Roadhog firmly corrected him.

“…Yes, of course. If _we_ need him,” Barker agreed, audibly nervous about the slip-up. “We can turn him in for a bounty once we’re done with him for a little something extra.”

A puff of breath shushed through the filters on Hog’s mask. “You sure this treasure even exists?”

“Why else would so many people be after it? Take my word for it; he’s not a very good liar, and he’s not the type of man to keep his mouth shut.”

Hog shifted in his seat, restless. Enough beating around the bush with these business semantics and sob stories. He’s here for one reason. “And just how much of it am I gettin’?” he asked. Barker kept quiet for a second, the gears in his head turning. Hog didn’t like that.

His voice came out dawdling, trying to buy time. “It’s a matter of seeing how much it ends up being, where it is exactly, the effort it takes to retrieve—”

“ _What’s my cut, Barker?_ ” Hog growled. Barker didn’t show a response, the fear had left him in his corporate state of mind knowing the true negotiations had begun. Neither could show weakness now. Neither could be so easily intimidated.

“I think a fifth would be a fair split,” he said with solid assurance.

“Eighty-twenty?” Hog questioned, incredulous and, frankly, damn insulted. “Are you fucking with me?”

“A fifth of the treasure payout would be more than enough pay than you’d get for anyone else requesting your ‘services’, _Roadhog_.” Oh, Hog knew he was getting under Barker’s skin now. He guessed this is what counted as an insult to the little man; a minor threat with some insolence. Pathetic. It’s not like Barker was getting under his skin… No, of course not.

“Listen,” he said with the slightest threat to his voice. “You contacted me. I’m doing the work. I get the info. That means I get more than your damn pocket change.”

Barker didn’t even blink. “Give me a number.”

Hog paused. It was rare he was given the reins on his own pay. Usually his “employer” threw out numbers until Hog accepted them, but then again, his employers weren’t so… calculating. He decided to be bold.

“Forty-sixty.” He heard Barker take in a sharp breath through his nose, like he had been stabbed by the proposal. A grimace crawled across his face as he made sure to make his discomfort visual. A negotiating tactic to try and make Hog feel his offer was unreasonable, but they both knew the tricks already.

“Twenty-five seventy-five,” he countered. “A quarter.”

Hog grumbled at the offer. “Thirty-five sixty-five.” Hog’s heart skipped as the words seethed through his filters. Shit. Mistake one, he lowered his offer first.

“One fourth,” Barker repeated with insistence.

“Thirty-seventy.”

“ _One fourth._ ”

It still wasn’t enough. Hog knew he had slipped up when he offered the idea of compromise by lowering his own price, while Barker had raised his. That meant the general favor leaned toward the other man now. He repeated his offer again, only for Barker to repeat his own. This terrible dance could go on forever, stuck between a measly five percent difference. Both knew that time was money, and that time ticked away the longer they lingered on numbers out of pride and pettiness.

“…Fine,” Hog conceded. “A quarter.” Barker’s wry smile returned, thin lips pulled even further into sagged cheeks in a way they weren’t used to stretching, a way that Hog wondered if it hurt him to do so. It wasn’t the eighty-twenty, but as long as it wasn’t the sixty-forty, Hog knew Barker considered himself the victor in their duel of words. Hog extended his hand, amused by how much it dwarfed Barker’s own as he reached out. He wrapped his fingers around the entire clammy hand until a bone popped, and shook hard enough to almost dislocate the man’s shoulder. Barker winced as he withdrew, making Hog smirk beneath his mask. “And how much for getting the info?”

“You’ve gotten that payment already.” Stated matter-of-factly. Insulting, almost.

“Bullshit!” he snarled, the assertiveness in him revived. He didn’t want to regret this so soon, but he also didn’t want to get screwed over. “That barely paid for the petrol to get over here—”

“Listen!” Barker hissed. Hog leaned back, surprised that he had the gall to interrupt him. It was the second time that day Hog had to almost physically stop his fist from swinging forward. “You get paid after you put in the effort. Right now, you have nothing to help me. No info, no treasure. _I’ve paid my consultation fee._ ” They stared at one another in a deadlock, and Hog knew that he was boiling inside more than Barker. God damnit. Mistake two, getting too emotionally invested. He huffed, trying to calm himself. _You’re still getting paid_ , he tried reminding himself. _You’re gonna get paid. Don’t fucking ruin this._

He exhaled in a grumble, no longer wanting to bicker over this bullshit anymore when he still had the guy below him to deal with. “You better have some cash ready when I come back. We’re not getting far on what’s left of your preliminary.” He stood, staring daggers down at Barker while he kicked away the chair behind him. “Gimme five minutes.” Hog turned and headed for the front door, feeling Barker watching him still. “And don’t go back there. You look too soft for it.”

“I don’t plan on it,” he said blankly. “And please. Be careful.” Hog stopped at that, not expecting the other man to show any sort of concern for him after the tense negotiation they had just been through. “…Don’t let him detonate anything if you can help it, the building won’t hold up to it.” Right. Like a guy like him cared about Roadhog’s safety. He didn’t need Barker’s well-wishes. Soon he’d have his money, and that was enough.

The night air stung icy against his exposed skin and he fought not to peel off his mask. He felt the sweat beading and smearing against the rubber, an uncomfortable reminder that his demeanor had cracked. His intimidation gave way to anger, he botched the negotiation, he could be walking away with forty percent of whatever this poor bastard had stashed somewhere. _Damnit, stop ruminating. You messed up, but you’re still getting something. Don’t mess this up too. This guy’s actually a threat._

He circled the pub, smelling blood in the water, approaching the storm doors in the back that led to the cellar. Slivers of light cut through the metal at the seams. It flickered, interrupted by someone moving in front of its source, gentle _clinks_ and _clangs_ muffled through the doors. He felt thankful for the letter now; bombers were not people you wanted to fuck with, and it gave him the perfect excuse to lure the man out with no fuss. Hell, “luring” probably wasn’t even the word for it. After all, he was expecting Roadhog’s company.

Knock five times, he remembered. He brought his fist to the door in five gentle (Well, gentle for him) raps— _boomboomboomboomboom_ —greeted immediately by a flurry of garbled cursing and the sound of metal and glass crashing against one another. Then— ** _POP!_** Like a light bulb bursting or a fire cracker going off. _Oh fuck_.

“JOEY, YOU _SHIT BASTARD_ ,” someone yelled—no, _squawked_. Shrill and crowing; the voice he heard burst through the floorboards earlier in a manic rage, unmistakably. Gray smoke sieved out from the thin gaps between the doors, reeking of chemicals Hog could smell even through his mask. “I’VE _TOLD_ YOU NOT TO KNOCK UNLESS YOU WANT THIS _WHOLE PLACE_ TO GO UP IN—”

“Not Barker,” Roadhog said, loud enough to slice through the man’s words. Everything below him stopped, save for the sound of shifting amongst broken glass and toppled metal. The light beaming from the cracks in the door became considerably obscured as a shape shifted on the other side, clamoring up what sounded like a set of stairs. Hog knew that between the moonless night and the now-muddled lights, the man wouldn’t be able to see much, if any, of him. And he certainly was trying to see him.

“Yer not?” he asked, in what sounded like genuine confusion. Hog hummed an affirmative _mm-hm_ , half-rumbling. It took a few clumsy seconds for a response. “Shit, you’re not.” Who else had a voice like his? Who could mistake his voice for someone else, _especially_ Barker? “…You a raider?” came next, slimy suspicion in a lower voice.

 _Oh my god_ , Hog thought, _like a raider would just admit to it if you asked_. He inhaled to calm himself, fighting the urge to just turn away and ride off and _fuck_ this whole ordeal. “The letter.”

“What?” Dubious with a side of honestly puzzled. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” Mouthy. Impatient.

“You sent me a letter.”

“…I did?” _Oh my **god**. _ Without a word, Hog ripped the crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothed it out the best he could, and stuffed it halfway through a crack in the door. A second later, the man yanked it the rest of the way through and began mumbling along to the (slow) reading of his own words.

“…Huh. Guess I did!” He broke into a small fit of cackles, the light from inside dancing as he moved behind the door. “ _Now_ it’s coming back. Just needed a jumpstart.” The voice drifted farther from the door, back under the pub and sifting through his belongings; metal on metal, papers rustling, general noises of disarray. It sounded like a real heap of shit. “Glad you told me about that, I was about to blow the mine under your feet, mate!”

Roadhog took an uneasy step backwards. He glanced down. The dirt looked… loose.

“Gimme a sec—” Hog heard him approach the door again, wrangling with chain and the heavy clicks of four padlocks. After several seconds the door burst open and Roadhog finally met his second sender, hacking and coughing amidst the plume of fresh smoke that followed him.

He had to admit, the man matched the chaos he created.

The only word that came to mind for Hog was “matchstick”. Tall, thin, easily snapped, drenched in the smell of sulfur and chemicals, sooty and burnt on top, and still smoldering. No, really, smoldering. Valleys of skin cut through the sparse shocks of his wildly unkempt hair, unnaturally so, either quickly by fire or slowly by radiation. His bugged, sunken eyes locked onto Hog like a target, widening and palpably excited, darting over him in a mania. Hog could count his molars from how wide his smile suddenly slashed across his cheeks, a dotting of grungy teeth interrupting the grime and ash smeared across the rest of his face. Hog forced his eyes away from the sharp angles of his face only to meet the sharp angles of everything else: wiry muscles bound around gangling limbs, ribs jutting through filthy skin in harsh malnourished ridges, and a concave stomach that told of no body fat whatsoever. The only clean skin seemed to be the bright outline of a removed harness across his scarred chest. He was all just tightly wound energy held together with sinew and cartilage and metal and filth. A catalyst of mayhem that threatened to burst into flames. A matchstick.

The more he stared back at Roadhog the more he giggled, starting slow but racing to a frenzied peak. “Christ almighty! When I told that kid to bring me an enforcer, I didn’t think she’d send the biggest bastard this side of Oz! Just Lookat’cha!” he beamed, climbing the stairs of the junk-filled hovel he called his temporary home and standing relatively straight (He reached Hog’s shoulder; an impressive feat) to meet his call for help face-to-face. His head tilted up and down as he got a better look at Roadhog. He sized him up, his face cycling through a mix of awe tinged with fear and fresh exhilaration. He choked to hold back his own laughter when he finally managed to focus on Hog’s stomach, biting his lip—Hog cracked his own neck with a tilt of his head and brought the man back to reality. He shook himself out of his stupor and extended his metal hand (Repainted omnic part, Hog noticed) and stood with a confident crook of his stature, other hand on his popped hip.

“Right! Jamison Fawkes, at your service. But you can call m—”

“Junkrat.” He swore he could see him shake just a little when Roadhog said his name in that low, lethal voice. It certainly perked him up. He could sense Junkrat’s excitement to have him as an “employee”… potentially. Unfortunately for him, Barker had already gotten to Hog first. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah yeah, Junkrat! Eh—wait,” he said, retracting his hand (Without any apparent disappointment of Hog not shaking; maybe he already forgot) and letting his stance go limp, “how’d you know my name?”

“You’re gaining talk.”

“You’re right about that. That’s why I need some _assistance_ , ah—what’s your name?”

“Roadhog.”

“It suits ya, mate!” he said, eyes peeking at Hog’s stomach again, and ending with a loud, screeching laugh. He wasn’t sure if this guy was taking the piss out of him or if he actually found it endearing. He began pacing and gesturing as he continued talking, waving his hands about and half-twirling on the peg jutting from his right knee to start striding the other way again. “Lemme get to the point, mate. I sent for you because I’m neck deep in shit. Y’see, I got a problem.”

“Mm-hm.” He certainly does, Hog thought.

“It all started a few months ago when I was picking through the old omnium—y’ever been there? Anyway, I’d gone deeper than I ever had before, when I uncovered something… priceless. Well, not priceless, but valuable, yeah. _Real_ valuable. Best thing I’ve ever scavenged. So I go out to celebrate, cheers to the new find, y’know? And after a few too many brews I guess I ended up blathering about it to someone— _damn_ if I could get my hands on whoever I told, I’d show ‘em the shit they’ve got me into… But yeah! Next thing I know I got bounty hunters and raiders chasing me coast to coast, wanting to get their hands on…” Roadhog tuned out about that point.

Well, that was enough of that. His five minute estimate was running out and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to hear this guy talk. Time to get to work.

Hog looked him over again: seemingly unarmed. Pockets were flat. No harness. Could have a knife stashed in the prosthetics but he could risk that. The bombs are what he’s worried about. He reached to unlatch his hook, thankfully unnoticed while Rat stayed distracted by his own talking. The leather around the handle creaked from the tightness of Hog’s grip, and before Rat knew it, he made his move. In a single powerful motion, Hog charged forward and rammed the bulk of his arm across Junkrat’s thin torso, easily tackling his light weight against the back wall of the pub. Junkrat choked on his words at the sudden hit, scrambling to get some footing and an idea of _just what the fuck happened_ while Hog held him in place with a single hand, splayed across his chest and collar bone. With a heavy swing of his weapon, the steel tip and heel of the hook buried themselves deep into the wood, **_THWOK!_** , just to the sides of Rat’s throat, pinning him across his tender neck. Stapled, in a way.

“Wait! _Wait **wait**!_ ” he shouted, his voice cracking under the strain of going so loud so quickly. “What’re you—fuckin’—!?” He cursed and clawed at the hook around his throat while real words failed him, metal scratching against metal, nails digging against nails, trying desperately to pry away the spike-embedded steel threatening to dig into him.

Hog took advantage of Rat’s hands being in such a precarious position, taking his free hand and quickly looping the excess chain around those skinny wrists to keep them in place. Junkrat flailed when he realized his mistake, trying to yank back only to cry out at the chain gripping forcefully onto his flesh. Hog held onto the hook and chain like a vice, roughly wrapping around Rat’s hands an extra time just for good measure, and around his own hand holding the hook in place to anchor it further. With his hands stuck and useless, Junkrat began kicking instead, wild, thoughtless—until Hog’s steel-toed boot made bruising contact with his flesh shin and followed it down to his good foot, scraping, stomping, pressing his weight down until Rat cried out from the threat of having his toes crushed to nothing through the thin leather of his shoe. Hog caught his peg mid-stab to his stomach, ripping the prosthetic off in one swift motion and tossing it aside, earning another pained shout. The dull, scarred stump left in its place could only nudge him now, just a minor annoyance.

Several seconds of chaos, quickly snuffed. Just like a matchstick.

Roadhog could feel how hard Junkrat was trembling through the chain’s reverberations. His eyes were stuck wide, unblinking, one pupil struggling to keep in focus from the rush of anxiety and adrenaline. He dripped fear and rage, breathing harsh and shallow. He fought to keep still. Any sudden move could mean steel in his jugular. His words hissed through gritted yellowed teeth. “Shit shit _shit shit **shit!**_ I don’t—I mean, I’m _not_ —”

“You have a treasure, Rat,” Hog muttered, death in his voice. “And I wanna know all about it.”

Junkrat took a second to try and keep himself from hyperventilating, fighting to say anything coherent again. “It’s—I— Look, I-I just found it in the omnium, and—and I fucked up by sayin’ anything about it! That’s all!”

“No. It’s not.” Nails drummed like impatient fingers against the veins of his neck. Hog leaned in closer, making sure Rat heard him nice and sparkling clear. “ _Where is it?_ ”

Junkrat’s brows suddenly furrowed at the request. His trigger finger burned with the desperate need to detonate something. He stewed in a growing feeling of nakedness. Exposed, laid bare. He might as well be sliced open with his innards on full bloody display for this fatass to tinker around in. No bombs, no detonator, no mines and no chemicals and no smoke and no fire and no _nothing_. Caught defenseless like a fucking idiot, after so much prep and so much planning. Caught. Just like that. Like he made it _easy_.

Junkrat didn’t do easy. With a snarl, he found his words. “ _Eat shit!_ ” he snapped, spitting and biting like a trapped animal being approached. He ground his foot into the dirt, trying to dig its way out from under the boot that pinned it. He pressed his neck hard against the heel end of the hook, away from the nails, trying to budge it even a millimeter. His stump leg shoved deep into the fat of Hog’s stomach as if it would knock him over. He could feel bruises and raw blisters forming on the wrist of his good hand with each violent jerk. Each useless movement, his captor stood firm. Unmoving. Unfazed. Unimpressed.

Hog simply huffed at Rat’s efforts. Oh, so now the little shit was getting _angry_. Hog chalked it up to being a stage of grief and grumbled at the petty insult.

“You’re wasting my time,” he said. He reached over his shoulder with his free hand to the holster on his back. It didn’t go unnoticed by his victim, whose struggles renewed with terrified fervor. “If I wasn’t getting a cut, I wouldn’t even bother with you.”

In the clusterfuck of emotions drowning him, Junkrat added “confusion” to the ever-growing list. “A cut?” he choked, deflating.

“Yeah. A _cut._ ” The gentle _click_ of his holster’s latch was barely audible through Rat’s anxious open-mouthed breathing. He grabbed tightly onto the handle sticking out from the leather sheath and pulled, slowly revealing what had to be the biggest bushwhacker Junkrat had ever seen in his short life. It caught the light from the basement and spat it back in his face as a sharp glint of steely silver, well-polished and taken care of but unmistakably used. _TELL HIM_ rang in his pounding head _. TELL HIM._ He felt like the machete went on for miles before it was fully unsheathed, and Hog gave it a well-practiced twirl between his fingers to where he held it in prime wielding position. Just like a meat cleaver. _TELL HIM_. He noticed Hog’s head tilting down. Searching. Looking. Finding. Right at Rat’s hands. His chained, vulnerable hands. Something within him clicked, the plan revealed. Strong, heavy fingers thumped slow and anticipatory on the leather grip. _TELL HIM._

Trembling, terrified laughter bubbled up from Rat’s guts the more he stared, the severity of his predicament fighting with his frenzied psyche. Common sense versus pride. Self preservation versus goddamn stupidity. “I’m halfway out of digits, mate! Hhhah _hhhaha!”_ he wheezed, trying to scrounge up any sort of humor he could to mute his shrieking brain. _TELL HIM._ “Beat you to it already!” The fingers of his metal hand waved at Hog and began tapping rapidly against the hook they were chained to, all nerves. His mouth laughed but his eyes spoke visceral horror.

Hog chuckled once through his nose. _Hmph._ “Got plenty left for me,” he muttered.

 _TELL HIM._ He brought the tip of the blade down and brushed it against the shuddering chain, centimeters away from helpless flesh. “Let’s see how many it takes before you say something useful.” _TELL. HIM._ Steel grating against steel made dread steep into Rat, to his blood, to his lungs, to his bone marrow. He thought of slamming his neck into the nails. Twisting his head and tearing open his throat. Bleeding out before he gave this asshole the satisfaction of telling him anything.

“Knuckle joints first.” _TELL HIM TELL HIM TELL HIM YOU STUPID FUC—_

His other limbs had gone fast. Well, pretty fast. Wasn’t pleasant, but he was sure it beat being carved up bit by bit, minute by minute.

“The quicker you talk, the less you lose. I got someone waiting.” Rat’s mouth hung slack-jawed in a petrified stupor, blinking sweat out of his burning eyes. Someone. Someone waiting? Talk quickly. No, can’t talk. Talk treasure. Treasure? Fuck. Knife. Bombs. Wait, no bombs. Shit. More words, less lose. Words? Words. What the fuck were words.

The only thing that felt like coming out of his mouth was vomit.

Hog grew impatient with the stubborn lack of information. He was hoping the skinny bastard would start talking by intimidation alone, but no, he had to do things the _hard_ way. He raised the machete to head-height, enough to get a good weight behind it. Enough to easily chop through bone like twigs. Rat’s hands were twitching in hysteria now, trying frantically to throw off his interrogator’s aim, to save his precious remaining fingers… But if Hog happened to take off more than just a knuckle, what difference was it to him? Nothing useful came out of Rat in these last dear seconds but sputtered half-thoughts. Time’s up. He cocked the machete back slightly before swinging it forward in a quick, bloody descen—

**“ _STOP!”_**

The world ground to a screeching halt, the knife frozen midway, just a few merciful inches above its target. Even Rat seemed surprised that his mouth and brain had made a sudden reconnect. Hog’s breath stalled in his lungs, waiting for Rat to start talking before he even had to get his hands dirty. A clean job, perhaps? No blood or screaming, not like it bothered him much. It’s just that a clean job meant an easy job. …That was before his detainee actually spoke.

“…This was Joey’s idea, wasn’t it?” he finally muttered. Roadhog grimaced beneath his mask, expecting him to say something valuable. He didn’t grace his claim with a reply, but to Rat, no response meant yes. He could have easily said no, he could have brushed it off with a “What the hell are you talking about,” but no, he stayed quiet. It spoke volumes, it confirmed suspicions, and Rat drank it all up. His eyes widened and a smirk spread across his face. Slightly happy that he was right for once, but mostly furious.

“It was! That shit licking—piece of— that cun—AH!” Hog quickly raised his bushwhacker again as if to finally bring it down on Rat’s hands, startling him… temporarily.

The threat didn’t seem to faze Rat nearly as much this time around. Instead, he filled the air with low laughter, rising, soon bursting into a full cackle before slowing himself down to speaking level again. “Ohhhoho, he turned you into a fuckin’ _chump_ , mate. Got ya good.”

Hog didn’t appreciate his newest job being so rudely uncovered and dismissed… mainly because that raised more suspicions about his employer. It was a brazen move to try and fuck over Roadhog, and if Rat was such a terrible liar as Barker implied, there was a truth to be exposed here. With no reason to keep it a secret any longer ( _Rat’s gonna die anyways_ , he quickly decided), he wanted to press the issue further.

“…You’re blackmailing him,” he said. That did little to stifle Rat’s laughter, enough to where Hog was nervous that Barker would hear and think he was just chumming around with this high-strung fucker rather than doing his job. Finally, he caught his breath to spit out why:

_“Because he’s a fuckin’ suit!”_

Hog’s blood ran cold. Suit was a four-letter word in Junkertown. It stood as a testament to the luxury of the outside world, to those in power over the poor irradiated scum of the Outback, a main hand in fucking over everyone trapped out here. Any Junker would jump at the chance to choke out a suit. They were a proverbial effigy to be burned. It wasn’t an accusation to be taken lightly.

In Hog’s silence and lack of dismembering, Rat continued. “Yeah! He’s a suit! A civvie, a citygoer, a businessman! I ain’t blackmailing him for nothing, ya shitwit! He’s got ties to the cities, they sent him out here to wring money outta us!”

…Money? From _Junkers_? It wasn’t adding up just yet to Hog. “Why should I trust you?” he sneered.

Junkrat gawked at the mere thought of Hog trusting Joey over him. “You’ve _seen_ him, right?! What part’a him looks like he’s spent more than a month surviving here? Weak scrawny bastard!” Hog thought back to the man sitting inside the pub, impatiently waiting for him to carve up the man he had pinned down. In his fitted jacket and unsoiled boots. Pale skin and hands without a single callous. It made… an uncomfortable amount of sense. In retrospect, he _did_ look too clean. Too soft. Too rich. “Have you even _spoken_ to him? He ain’t from here, wasn’t raised here, never had to experience the _joys_ of being a Junker!” Rat said, sarcastic emphasis on _joys_. “Just take my word for it! Trust me, I’d come up with a better excuse if I was lying!” As much as he sounded genuine, Hog didn’t want to believe he’d almost gotten hired to be a suit’s flunky. Why should he believe a word he said? …In that case, why should he believe a word Barker said?

Now Hog felt the stages of grief begin again. Denial. “He called you a killer.”

Anger. “Ain’t killed no one he knew. He doesn’t care about Junkers. It’s all self-defense, they come for me first and I’m firing back!”

“A thief.”

Bargaining. “I’m a scrapper, mate, I just scavenge! I’m not like some bandit arsehole, gonna go raid a medical tent for pain pills and bump off a poor nurse! I get my earnings when those bastards try an’ fuck me over and end up as mincemeat!”

“A crazed demolitionist.”

“I—well, that’s true.”

Depression. “I spent my whole life out here with nothing to my name ‘til a couple months ago… and that rich bastard’s gonna knock me off and get even richer, yeah?”

Hog had to admit, a common unspoken fear out here in the wastes seemed to be the thought of what you’ve worked hard for going to someone who did nothing for it. And Barker was certainly doing nothing for it besides getting Roadhog to be his lackey. He almost felt sorry for Rat… almost. He couldn’t feel pity at a time like this, at such a shifting of the tides. Still… he felt his machete lower itself, resting the blunt edge against his shoulder. He could still strike in a hot second, but hesitantly.

Acceptance… in a sense.

Junkrat kept up the conversation, feeling Hog was starting to sway. “You’re not from around here, are ya? Where’d you head here from? Northern territory? Queensland? Bet the prices ‘round here sure are _something_ , right?”

Hog grumbled low, enough to where Rat could tell it was an annoyed affirmation. His grin widened.

“Ya wanna know why?” For once, Hog wanted to hear more from him. He gave a shallow nod, slow and guarded.

“He ran off and bought out the fuel stops to where he’s the only hand out here on petrol. He’s a stooge for the oil companies from the city. He’s their gateway out here. I heard it all through the floor, always on the phone when he thinks I’m sleeping.” Thin floorboards, Hog recalled. A glancing, paranoid eye, constantly darting. “And you’re not the only one that’s mad. All I gotta do is spread the word around that he’s a suit and he’ll get strung up by the locals. They got their eye on him already. Still figuring out whether to trust him.”

Rat exhaled shakily, ecstatic to be able to gush to someone else after countless hours of sleepless nights gathering dirt that he could finally spill. He just prayed that Hog believed him, that he could help him. He sagged against the hook still pinning him, glancing at the ground and gritting his teeth. “Can’t say nothing though. He’s been threatening to turn me in to the gangs for the last couple’a weeks,” he said, “but I guess he got greedy and wanted the treasure for himself. If the gangs got me, he wouldn’t get shit.” Rat looked up from the red dirt around his feet and to Hog’s dark lenses. “And lemme guess, you’re not even gettin’ a third of it, doing the work while he sits on his scheming arse in the comfort of his own pub?”

Hog felt his guts go sour. He would have been lucky if he had escaped that negotiation with a third. “…A quarter,” he admitted.

“A _quarter_ split, really? Selling yourself short, mate!” Rat said. Hog chuckled; he was right, of course, but flattery wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Say, I can do you twice better.” …That might get him somewhere, though.

In the world of money, he had to admit to himself and his stubborn pride: he’d rather get paid by a Junker than a suit. Rat coughed a little, gesturing with his head and eyes to the machete still perched on Hog’s shoulder. Taking the hint, safety for an offer of money, he reached back and sheathed it into the holster once more. He left the latch undone, but the knife just being out of sight was enough to make Rat sigh out of relief.

“Now, before I was so rudely interrupted,” he said with a small dawdle of his head, as if playfully shaming the other man, “I was saying… I need some help keeping these greedy fucks off’a me. I can handle a few, but this ain’t just a few anymore.” His voice dropped in seriousness. “Consider it a bodyguard position, eh… sort of.” He twiddled his chained hands, making small so-so gestures. “If I die, no one’s gettin’ the treasure. Not you, not me, nobody. And, well, you’re planning on killing me anyways, so I might as well throw it out there. What have I got to lose?” He chuckled, barely masking the fear settling back into his voice at the thought of being slowly butchered in case this fell through. “Your loyalty’s for sale already, lemme put in a bid.”

Hog chewed on his tongue, running it against his teeth as he thought. A bodyguard, huh? He had to admit, it was a unique offer. Most of his jobs were quick and messy and just for getting to point A to point B. Get some revenge for someone else, get some loot for someone else… get some information for someone else. Bodyguarding offered an unfamiliar, unpalatable sense of permanency. More than he was used to. There were a million unknowns going into this, a million different ways this could kill him, or both of them. But then again, what part of life in Junkertown wasn’t fraught with ways to die? He had survived this long. He had overcome so much adversity both self-induced and otherwise; there was no way he’d let this guy drag him down to his death. It was a matter of being smart and juggling risks, of setting wide, strict boundaries for his trust and dedication. He could be this shithead’s employee, but he’d be a self-serving one.

“…What’s your offer?”

Junkrat shone bright, snickering. “I knew it!” His fingers tapped excitedly against the hook, the only movable body part he had left.

“Start talking,” he grumbled. “I’m hired already.”

Junkrat cleared his throat, trying to stay intelligible. “Fifty-fifty split. All earnings. Everything we scrape up from the people coming after me. Let’s just say it’ll be a steady paycheck, heh. Sounds better than a one-off deal, right? Getting Joey’s scraps and fucking off forever, yeah?”

Rat couldn’t see it, but Hog’s brows perked in genuine consideration. A fifty-fifty split that size was unheard of in his line of work. “And the treasure?”

“And the treasure too. Right down the middle.” Rat sounded confident in his offer, showing just a slight bit of sadness at having to divvy his precious treasure in half. In his mind, though, it was worth it to have this big bastard on his side. He could hear the bones snapping already, a chorus of broken necks and limbs bent backwards amidst the sound of his beautiful bombs turning humans into giblets. He returned to reality when Hog hummed at the mention of the treasure. “…Not now though, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“Cross,” Hog corrected.

“Wha’?”

“Cross that bridge.”

“S’what I said.” His body shifted uncomfortably, flexing his tired fingers and gently poking Hog’s belly with his half-leg. “Now, if you don’t mind…” He shrugged his shoulders, glancing down at his current state of bound-up immobile self and back up at Hog, who kept hesitant.

“Don’t try anything funny,” he growled, reluctant to let him go so easily. Rat seemed unpredictable enough to where he could spring a shiv out of nowhere and slash him, or somehow trigger the buried mine, or dig a bomb out from god knows where. Why _wouldn’t_ he fight back after what Hog just put him through? Instead Rat just giggled, almost casually. Hog felt he’d have to get used to a lot of laughing.

“Naw, mate. If you killed me, you lose your steady money and the treasure. If I killed you, I’d be getting dragged behind a motorbike by my ankle within a week. We keep each other alive, we both win, true?” The logic seemed frail and utterly bullshit, but even Hog was getting tired of pinning this guy up like he was a stick bug in an insect collection. He was in too deep already. He had already given him too much consideration, he had given him his ear and showed the slightest budge and now he was a fucking sucker. He had basically snubbed Barker’s offer already, the job was botched beyond recognition, and now his choices were running slim. It was a risk he was slightly willing to take.

He let Rat’s good foot go first, lifting up his boot and taking a small step back. He anticipated it to immediately kick and connect with the cage connected to his belt buckle… but it never came. Rat egged him on with a small _yeah_ under his breath, happy to have blood rush back into his remaining toes. Without any backlash so far, he cautiously unraveled the chain around his own hand and the hook’s grip, letting it go slack enough to loosen around Junkrat’s battered wrists. He expected him to yank his hands back at the slightest give, but he waited in surprising patience for Hog to undo it for him as the winch on his belt automatically spooled the excess chain. Hog paused, expecting him to make a move, but the only move he made was to rub circles on his flesh wrist and curse under his breath at small winces of pain. Finally he pried the hook out from the wooden wall, digging out a chunk of splinters along with it and keeping the nails away from the other’s neck, fully freeing his thankful prisoner.

A tense standoff started as Hog backed up, Rat struggling to keep balance on one leg and to keep eye contact. Hog still had his hook in his grip and kept track of Rat’s every move, ready to throw if he sensed anything even slightly awry.

“Don’t worry, I’m not doing nothin’…” Rat mumbled, hoping it would calm the tension. He hobbled over to his discarded peg and dropped to his knee, inspecting the limb and fixing it back in place once he decided it wasn’t broken. Back on two feet (relatively), he turned to face Hog, showing his empty hands front and back as if to say he wasn’t going to try anything. Hog saw his eyes flicker towards his hook, and he half-heartedly latched it back into place on his side. With a sigh, he repeated the hand gesture Rat had given him. Now weaponless, Rat looked entirely more at ease with Hog’s presence, and stepped forward with his hand extended.

“So what do you say, my porcine pal? We got a deal?”

Hog huffed. The idea of deferring to Junkrat… wasn’t ideal. Nothing in Hog’s life was ideal right now, hadn’t been for decades. He could still turn back, he could hop on his motorcycle and bury this whole experience amongst all his other godawful memories. He could whip out his machete in a half-second and bisect this guy for the fun of it, he could bust into the pub and do the same to Barker and let the treasure and the secrets die with both of them. He could take the offer and cut Barker out completely. He could carry on with his “interrogation” elsewhere and have it all for himself… and go right back to where he started and inherit Rat’s bounty hunter problems with his newfound riches. He could have a chance at unstable stability by making sure this guy didn’t do anything stupid, and by the looks of it, he did plenty of stupid things.

He had a choice to make. A grudging, terrible choice.

He took Junkrat’s cold metal hand in his and shook.

“…Deal.”

As the word left him, he felt like he just made the biggest mistake of his life.

It took a few seconds for Junkrat to register exactly what just happened. He was expecting the worst, for Hog to rip out his arm and have a knee to his back and that machete through some hunk of muscle and go right back to where he was, but no. He actually accepted the offer. Rat’s hand fell limply once Hog loosened his grip, everything still sinking in for both of them. His face split into a manic grin, laughter puffing through his nose, and he had to keep himself from crying out. He was spared, he was… safe? Too early to say that yet, but just being spared was enough to bring him to elation.

Hog, however, just wanted to get this done. Before Rat could start too deep into happy babbling, he cut him off. “Go grab your shit. Nothing you can’t carry. I’m not your pack mule.”

“Right!” he said, bounding off and diving back into the junk-filled basement, immediately launching into sounds of cluttered chaos. Hog took several wide steps away from the doorway and the bomb beneath it, slightly curious as to how Rat navigated that scrap heap at all and what exactly he found “valuable” enough to take. A minute later and Rat resurfaced with a large, bulging satchel across his back. His harness was back in place, Hog noticed, lined with an alarming amount of canisters. His pack clattered and clinked with the sound of metal as he hobbled forward.

“Where to?” he asked, anticipatory and beaming. Glad as all hell to get out of that basement.

Hog turned to look down the road to the city. He felt like he had another six hours of driving time left in him… not taking into account the effort of having to put up with this guy now. “Not here.”

Hog led the way, treading quietly around the pub and to his bike, avoiding windows, hoping he could make a stealthy getaway. The last thing either of them needed was extra attention. By the time he got the bike started, it would only take a couple seconds to speed off. He hoped that was enough time to where Barker wouldn’t be alerted. As he approached the motorcycle, Rat shuffled ahead of him, cooing at the marvelous machine before him.

“Shit, mate, this yers? Keepin’ it up real nice,” he said under his breath. “I’ve only been on dirt bikes.” He took a few seconds to admire the lovingly polished chrome and custom work before Hog grunted impatiently, pushing him out of the way to take his seat at the helm. Junkrat took the cue and clambered on behind him, just enough seat for his scrawny self to be uncomfortably pressed against Hog’s back.

“Wait a tick,” he said. He reached into a side pouch on his bag and pulled out a gnarled piece of junk metal. He gave it a small toss in his hand, leaning to face the pub. Hog turned to see what Rat was doing, and he swore his heart stopped. He didn’t have time to say shit before Rat beat him to it.

“ _OI, JOEY!_ ” he yelled, launching the hunk of scrap straight through one of the filthy windows of the pub and sending glass shards flying. Immediately Barker poked his head through, shocked half-dead by the sight of his hired muscle on his motorcycle with his unharmed intended victim following suit with a wicked laugh. Barker’s shouts were drowned out by the bike screaming back to life, Rat shaking with excitement just feeling the motor’s power coursing through his whole frame. He waved to Barker as he pulled back through the window and burst through the front door.

“Nice try, ya _fuck!_ I left ya a little present in the basement, let’s see if you can find it in time!” He ended with another cawing laugh, booming and overjoyed and outright maniacal. Hog felt a knot tighten in his stomach. _Shit, time to go_. The last thing he saw before he screeched out of the dirt lot was Barker’s horrified face as he scrambled back into the pub, to the back door, to the basement.

The only thing left outside the pub was a plume of dust and Rat’s echoing laughs fading into the distance.

Hog felt him trembling against his back, out of exhilaration or deviousness or whatever made his irradiated brain tick. After a good half-minute getting up to a comfortable speed, he built the nerve to ask, “…You didn’t actually leave a bomb, right?”

Junkrat kept quiet for a couple seconds before sputtering out into more piercing laughter. He… didn’t exactly answer.

 _“What have I gotten myself into?”_ Hog thought, the giggling behind him soon delving toward excited, meaningless chatter that he could barely hear between the bike and the cutting wind. _“What the **hell** have I gotten myself into?”_

For the first several minutes of their long ride into the night, Roadhog wondered if every pop and kickback from his engine was actually the sound of a small pub in the distance being blown to scrap and splinters.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me in Junker Hell™: liache.tumblr.com
> 
> I don't have a beta reader (yet?) so if there's a screwup, tell me.


End file.
